


Help me

by sugarmoons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, But he only gets a couple of sentences bc this is short, Draco can't really cope, Harry's dead, M/M, Nightmares, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarmoons/pseuds/sugarmoons
Summary: Harry's dead. Draco tries to cope.





	Help me

Harry was dead. Not dead metaphorically. Genuinely a corpse. A shell that was once human. And Draco was distraught.

It was just another job, a regular day for an auror except this time the killing curse had hit Harry. The boy who lived was the man who died easily. Even though everyone knew it was Harry he was forced to identify the body, forced to look at his dead husband and go 'Yes that's him'. He had no chance for denial as he looked into his dead green eyes. Eyes that were recognisable, eyes that were now six feet deep. 

Ron helped him back from the body, ignoring the past he still held onto as Draco's face flooded with tears. Regret as his last words to Harry weren't a cherished 'I love you' but an 'I'll seen you tonight' as he made coffee. No last kiss, no closure between them. He was hit with a hurricane of raw emotion that he couldn't subdue. All he wanted was a spark from the fire that used to burn so bright but had become nothing but ash.

Hermione ran the funeral as he sat in the first row choked with tears. He regretted the speech he gave calling himself pathetic, how could he say all that love bullshit when the one man he cared for was in the ground. He did't want the sweet sympathy he wanted him back. He wanted every sorry to reverse time and make sure that Harry wasn't the one to die. To make sure Harry survived.

His dreams were plagued with tearful green eyes begging him to not let him die.   
'Please Draco, please help me'  
They made no sense. The depicted him bleeding on the ground as if he was suffering gunshot. At least his death was painless. At least he never suffered.

He could hear Harry's voice ringing through his ears. He should've been there, how could he have just let his husband go and risk his life so carelessly. How was he so stupid. 

Then there was the dreams were he and Harry sat and ate pleasant meals. They drank wine he had chosen and Harry screwed his face up once it started getting to strong. Slowly his face would begin to rot, returning to the corpse-like state it was really in.  
'Help me Draco, help me' Harry would plead before his face becoming one of anger   
'You wanted me to die, you never really loved me' Harry would sneer as his face began to melt

Draco would wake up drenched in sweat, his breathing quick and his heart irregular. 

He felt the guilt which became anger. He felt angry at those who were supposed to be helping Harry. How could they have let him die? They were meant to protect him. Why couldn't it have been one of them? Why was it Harry? What had Harry done to deserve such misfortune? Nothing.

He started pointless bar fights and drunkenly yelled at Ron. Ron consoled him as he struggled at mourning himself. He ripped the memorial newspapers that were just out for the money that came with plastering the Potter name on a front cover. He was just stopped by Blaise before he burned up all of the photos he had of Harry. He broke down into tears mixed with unknown emotions curling himself into a ball. He felt vulnerable.

Blaise moved in for a couple of months, the worst ones. Draco wouldn't leave his room sometimes, his bed when it was at its worst. He didn't care about himself, he let himself go whilst everyone watched. Blaise would bring him food that he wouldn't touch and change the sheets when Draco left to take the eventual shower. Blaise took care of his childhood friend and he watched him deteriorate. Crumble into millions of pieces, too many to stitch back together.

One day he got up and showered and made himself breakfast. He had on clean clothes and had shaved the scruff that he called a beard. He wasn't fixed but he was gluing himself together. Sometimes he would stray and break again but he was better at getting back up. He was better at taking care of himself. At accepting what had happened. Not fully, never fully. Just enough to function until he would follow Harry to the beyond.


End file.
